One Naughty Night. Joanne Rock
the heavy metal door swung shut behind him he heard Giselle call him a chauvinist pig and he smiled. No news there.
Dance music flooded his senses as he melted into the crowd to search for a table. Snippets of conversation around him drowned out his own thoughts, escalating into an unintelligible, continuous rumble of noise and laughter.
Although Renzo made no attempt to look charming while he ate at his table for one in the back of the bar, tempting women approached him twice. Part of him responded to their frank come-ons and slinky attire. It had been six months since Celeste, after all. Old-fashioned values be damned, his sister had been right to suggest he was no monk.
But he had more on his mind than sex—even with the thumping bass of R&B music pulsing through the dance club and the swirl of moody red and blue lights above him. As the clock behind one of the bars struck midnight, Renzo told himself he needed to do a better job keeping the wolves from Giselle’s door—a sacred trust passed along to him and his brothers by their father on his deathbed. More importantly, he had to figure out how in the hell to pay for his younger brother’s latest bills in law school while the rest of his family built their careers.
Obviously he needed a second job to supplement his carpentry, but—
Holy hell.
Renzo’s attention snapped from finances back to the action on the dance floor. The scene that a moment ago had been a mass of rump shaking, thigh flashing and heavy breathing got a little more interesting as a petite blonde dressed like a fairy in a high-school play glided into view.
Renzo had her pegged for the glasses and hair-in-a-bun type in two seconds flat. Her fluttery lavender dress looked like the kind of thing other women wore to church. Yet here she was, flitting through South Beach’s most notoriously exotic club in an ankle length skirt.
She had a schoolteacher walk too. Very proper. No lazy hip rolling or swinging of arms going on there. In fact, she seemed to take up as little space as possible, edging her way through the crowd, shoulders delicately drawn in and her blue eyes wide with palpable surprise at the sex-drenched atmosphere.
She stood out in the crowd to him—a conservative anomaly in the room packed full of skintight clothes and do-me high heels.
Not that anyone else seemed to notice.
While Renzo tracked her with his eyes as she inched her way between men and women playing complex games of flirtation, he realized no one else noticed the incongruity of this reserved creature in the midst of the urban jungle.
Talk about being thrown to the wolves. The feathery blonde looked completely unprepared to handle herself in a flagrant meat market like this one. Where was her big brother, damn it?
Rising to his feet, Renzo passed off his plate to a harried busboy and moved closer to the dance floor, all thought of second jobs and law school tuition forgotten for the moment.
Not that he was attracted to this woman, he told himself. Just that the protector in him couldn’t stand to watch her brand of innocence stomped by the lascivious lounge lizards populating the club.
He had already glimpsed some slick Don Juan type headed her way, two drinks in his hand. And no way did this man know the wide-eyed blonde. Renzo had seen this particular Romeo at the club every night he’d checked in on Giselle for the past month. Nico had tossed the guy out on his ear last week for aggressively dancing with a woman who obviously wanted no part of his company.
Renzo finished his bottle of water and tossed it on to the bar, keeping his eye on the silk-suited barracuda closing in on little Miss Innocent. Giselle wouldn’t exactly mind if he didn’t get back to the kitchen for another hour.
She could call him a chauvinist all she wanted. He had every intention of running interference for the blond newcomer—at least until he convinced her she was out of her depth in these shark-infested waters.
Swearing off women didn’t mean he couldn’t help out a lady in distress. Or possibly introduce himself after he’d given her a hand. He had a pulse, after all.
And, damn it, he wasn’t a monk.
ESMERALDA WONDERED if it was too late to back out of the blind date thing when she spied the man in a slick silk suit walking toward her with two drinks in his hand. He shared the same reedy, too-perfect good looks as her former boss, an association that brought a wave of nausea to her already quivery belly.
She forced herself to stand still, however, determined not to follow her instincts tonight. If this guy turned out to be Hugh Duncan, she would find a way to survive it. Although she suspected it would be easier to get through the evening if she’d worn her bra. At this rate, she’d be hunching her shoulders all night to disguise the fact.
Then again, her date might be very nice despite the strong cloud of musky cologne that reached her long before he did.
Her lovely neighbor Mrs. Wolcott assured her Hugh was a perfect gentleman.
Straightening her spine as the man approached her from the right and opened his mouth to speak, Esme jumped when another voice intervened.
“I’ve been keeping an eye out for you.” The warm, masculine rasp emanated from her left. Somehow she’d missed this man’s approach in her fear of turning her back on Mr. Reedy.
A damn shame considering the newcomer looked like a page on a girl’s pinup calendar. She had never possessed such a thing herself, but in the many hours of her life she’d spent ensconced in bookstores, Esme had most certainly spied hunk calendars. This guy, with his dark hair, even darker eyes and sexy bronze skin should have been in one of the “Studs of Italy” editions.
Not that she’d memorized her favorite titles or anything, either.
“You’ve been looking for me?” She wondered if her voice conveyed a pathetic amount of hopefulness. Glancing back and forth between Mr. Reedy who’d taken the liberty of ordering a drink for her already and the Italian stud who possessed killer muscles and yet not a hint of aggressive body language, Esme crossed her fingers that the Italian stud proved to be Hugh Duncan.
She cast a pointed look to her left, away from the overpowering cologne of Joe Slick. “I’m Esme Giles. Are you Hugh?”
The guy to her right bristled, raising himself a little taller in his polished leather shoes as he shoved a drink under her nose. “Hey, Esme, how about some sex on the beach?”
She struggled not to roll her eyes. Even the college history geeks had been above using that tired bit. Curious, she wanted to ask the man if that line had ever worked for him before, but Mr. Tall, Dark and Delicious inserted himself between them to face her.
“I’m the man you’re looking for.” He nudged the reedy guy’s glass aside with one hand while smoothly steering Esme toward the back of the club and away from the other man.
Very presumptuous. And okay, maybe a little sexy.
Part of her was grateful for the assistance since she’d been getting a sinus headache from the other guy’s cologne overload, but part of her didn’t appreciate being led around by the nose. Or in this case, the elbow.
The new Esmerelda had every intention of calling her own shots and following her own path in life.
She stopped just before they reached a secluded table, refusing to go any farther until she’d confronted Rambo.
Whirling on him, she sent her skirt in a swirl about her legs, the resulting breeze creating a delicious draft up her dress. But as she faced her rescuer again, she was struck anew by his sexy good looks. The bronze skin, the dark eyes, the longish dark hair. His sharply sculpted face was full of hard angles, relieved only by the soft fullness of his mouth.
And despite the serious feminine competition all around, this guy had noticed her and stuck around long enough to help her out of a sticky situation. The night seemed to be looking up.
Clearing her throat, she tried to remember Mrs. Wolcott’s description of Hugh Duncan and failed. Any mental vision